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ELECTRIC 

LIGHTED 

TRAINS 

Are operated by the 


FRISCO 

SYSTEM 


TEXAS 

And the 

North and East 

Between 

BIRMINGHAM, MEMPHIS, 

And the 

North and West 

Between 

OKLAHOMA 

And the 

North. and East 


Observation cafe cars, under the 
management of Fred Harvey. Equip¬ 
ment of the latest and best design. 






























DULCAMARA 


Selections in Prose and Verse 
from the Writings 
of 

i/ 

HOWARD SAXBY JR. 


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CONTENTS. 


Poetry. 

PAat 

Germs and the Man,.7 

The Vagabond’s Song,.10 

A Counter Irritant,.12 

A Sioux Sleep Song,.14 

Past and Future,.19 

Two Letters,.20 

Out West,.29 

An International Boasting Party, . 30 

The Pirate and the Trusts, . . .40 

The Rule of the Pen,.42 

A Paraphrase,.51 

The Bench in the Garden, 53 

A Finnish Lullaby,.60 

Prose. 

The Atonement, ...... 15 

Two in a Boat,.21 

A Portrait of the Virgin, . . . 35 

Mrs. Van Ousten’s Mistake, . . -44 

When Falls the Rain,.55 

[5 3 


Dulcamara. 

Jt 

OERMS AND THE MAN. 

I walked one summer evening 
By the green banks of a stream— 

A little babbling brooklet, 

Most harmless, it would seem. 

My throat was parched 
And my mouth was dry; 

But, “ You mustn’t drink that water,” 
I heard harsh Science cry. 

■** It is full of little germs— 

Little parasitic worms.” 

At last I saw a milkmaid, 

With a bucket in her hand. 

I thought fresh milk as pure a drink 
As any in the land. 

I thought that I would hail her, 

And ask her if I might 

Have a draught from out the bucket 
Filled with liquid creamy white. 

My throat was parched 
And my mouth was dry; 

But, “ You mustn’t drink that fluid,” 

I heard old Science cry. 

“ It is full of little germs— 

Little parasitic worms. 

Have you never realized 
Milk must be sterilized, 

To kill the little germs— 

Little parasitic worms?” 


[ 7 ] 


As I journeyed on and on, 

My thirst increased and grew; 

Before I’d gone another mile, 

My tongue seemed split in two. 

My breath came hard and painfully, 

My throat and mouth were dry, 

When, “ You mustn’t breathe this air, ,r 
I heard harsh Science cry. 

“ It is full of deadly germs, 

Far worse than horrid worms— 

Poison little, 

Deadly little 

Germs! ” 

“ Enough,” I cried, “ enough ! 

I’ll not listen to such stuff! 

You have made me think, till now, 

That God did not know how 
To make earth’s water pure; 

But you go too far, be sure, 

When you tell me that the air 
Is the lurking place and lair 
Of deadly little germs, 

Far worse than horrid worms.’’ 

So to the stream I hurried, 

To slake my raging thirst; 

I filled myself with water 
Until I almost burst. 

Old Science screamed and shouted, 

But his warning words I scouted 
When he cried in fiendish glee: 

“ Now the germs are all in thee; 

You are full of little germs 
And parasitic worms.” 


[ 8 ] 


But as I journeyed on, 

My racking thirst was gone, 

And to myself I swore 
I would credit nevermore 
The harmful power of germs 
And parasitic worms. 

You may have your filtered water, 
You may sterilize your milk; 
But I hold to the maxim, 

’Tis worms that make the silk. 

I am not afraid of germs, 

Nor of parasitic worms; 

I am on the best of terms 
With the pretty little germs— 
Harmless little, 

Healthy little 
Germs. 




[ 9 ] 


THE VAGABOND’S SONG 


(A party of court exquisites, seeking entertainment in a 
Parisian inn, request “the vagabond” to sing for them. 
Time —about the close of the sixteenth century.) 


Ye heroes of lace and smirking face. 

Ye may jeer, if ye like, at me; 

My doublet is worn and my hat is torn, 

But still I am bold and free. 

Ye may bow to your King, and his praises sing. 
As ye grovel in dust at his feet; 

Albeit I’ve no gold, unfettered and bold, 

I grovel at no man’s feet. 

A vagabond, 

Aw, haw, haw, haw! 

A vagabond sans souci! 

To beauty, of course, but never to force, 

Do I bend my arrogant knee! 

Oh, it’s ho for a fight by day or by night; 

And it’s little—oh, little—I care 

If my opponent be of low degree 
Or a man of courtly air. 

I rhyme a bit, and it’s by my wit 
That I satisfy my hunger; 

Unfettered and bold, I need no gold 
To satisfy my hunger. 

A vagabond, 

Aw, haw, haw, haw ! 

A vagabond satis souci! 

I lead a life of adventure and strife, 

And manage to happy be. 


If I want a bride, I’ve a sword at my side, 

And some say a handsome face; 

And I’ll wot I can woo as well as can you, 

With all of your jewels and lace. 

Ye may bow to your King, and his praises sing, 
As ye grovel in dust at his feet; 

Albeit I’ve no gold, unfettered and bold, 

I grovel at no man’s feet. 

A vagabond, 

Aw, haw, haw, haw ! 

A vagabond sans souci! 

To beauty, of course, but never to force, 

Do I bend my arrogant knee. 


If it suit my taste, I’m off in haste 
To'a rollicking, frolicking war; 

No soldier I, but I’ll not deny 
I have fought in the ranks before. 

I’ll drink a bout with the sturdiest lout 
That ever has drained a cup; 

Albeit I’ve no gold, I am joyous and bold, 
And ready to drain a cup. 

A vagabond,f 
Aw, haw, haw, haw ! 

A vagabond sans soucil 
I lead a life of adventure and strife, 

And manage to happy be. 


[ii] 


A COUNTER IRRITANT. 


BEING A FABLE IN RHYME. 

Once there was a youth who longed 
For literary glory, 

And to some fifty editors 

He sent his first short story. 

Admiring friends had told him 
He’d surely make a name; 

Predicted his effusions 

Were destined to great fame. 

The first great publication 
Receiving his MS. 

(He asked two hundred dollars— 

Said he couldn’t think of less), 

Returned it, with a printed slip 
Which read: “ The Editor 

Has read the clever manuscript ” 
(You’ve heard of this before) 

“ That the author to this magazine 
So kindly has submitted, 

But regrets to all requirements 
It is not entirely fitted.” 

The sanguine youth, greatly surprised 
That it had been refused, 

Conceived himself unfortunate 
And very much abused. 


For two long years he tried to sell 
This “ great ” romantic tale; 

He sent it out, but it came back 
By each returning mail. 

At last he yielded up the ghost, 
Hauled down his flag to Fate, 

And buried his ambitions 
Before it was too late. 

He then secured a paying job 
In a department store; 

Did very well, and soon became 

“ The man who walks the floor.” 

MORAL. 

O Men and Women, one and all, 
Who seek for mundane glory, 

Build not your hopes on poetry, 

Nor yet on a short story. 




[13] 


A SIOUX SLEEP SONG. 


Child of the forest, my little papoose, 

Tender and soft as the eyes of the moose, 

The sky no longer is sunlit and blue— 
Darkness is coming, young chief of the Sioux! 

Lala, Tee, Lala, 

Eh, Lala, Tee, Lou; 

Sleep and sleep softly, 

Papoose of the Sioux. 

Some day a warrior stern will you be, 

A hunter and brave, my Te-oo-ku-che; 

But now must you slumber, Indian papoose, 
Tender and soft as the eyes of the moose. 

Lala, Tee, Lala, 

Eh, Lala, Tee, Lou; 

Sleep and sleep softly, 

Young chief of the Sioux. 

The God of our Fathers, the great Maneto, 
Will keep from our wigwam each cruel foe; 

So wander to dreamland, little papoose, 
Tender and soft as the eyes of the moose. 

Lala, Tee, Lala, 

Eh, Lala, Tee, Lou; 

Sleep and sleep softly, 

Young chief of the Sioux. 


THE ATONEMENT. 


It was Christmas Eve and very late, but still the 
Reverend Paul Preston paced up and down the floor 
of his study. He had sent word to his assistant that 
he was ill and would not be present at the children’s 
Christmas tree or the evening service. 

On the young rector’s table, amid piles of manu¬ 
script and theological works, lay a folded sheet of 
blue writing paper, upon which, in his wife’s small, 
refined hand, were traced the words that had changed 
the whole current of his life. He remembered that 
but a week ago she had filled his pipe from the little 
silver jar upon the mantel, and then she had kissed 
him —kissed him! Henry had dropped in for a little 
chat that night, too. Henry, his old college chum; 
his friend, God forgive him! Now that he came to 
think of it, they had both acted rather strangely. 
She had been silent and constrained; Henry un¬ 
naturally gay. 

Six years ago, when the young divinity student 
had asked her to become his wife, she had said: 
“Paul, you make a mistake. You are a minister 
and I am a butterfly.” 

Still he knew she had loved him, and, ah ! how well 
he had loved her. Not selfishly and egotistically, 
but with a passion as deep as life itself. For six 
years they had lived happily, contentedly, lovingly; 
and now, without a warning cloud, this startling, 
stupefying blow had fallen. She had not returned 
last night, and this morning the letter had come. 
This morning —after they had sailed for Europe! 
His wife and his life-long friend ! 

He had eaten nothing all day, and, for the first 


time in his life, could find no consolation in com¬ 
muning with his Maker. His little son had been put 
to bed hours ago, and since then he had been pacing 
up and down his solitary study, brooding over the 
great sorrow that had come to him so unexpectedly. 

Paul Preston’s career had been one of self-denying 
godliness. Only a month previous he had refused a 
call to one of the aristocratic parishes of Tarrytown 
rather than to give up his little church in the slums, 
where he felt he was doing a good work. And now— 
well, he would give up the ministry. Never again 
would he preach from the dear old pulpit, never 
again look down into the trusting faces of those he 
had pulled from the gutter and the gambling den. 
And there was her pew on the right —her pew on the 
right! Oh, what an example to set before those 
poor, ignorant people! Would to God it were pos¬ 
sible to keep from them the fate of the woman they 
had so loved and respected. 

But it was done now, and it could not be undone. 
To-morrow he would send for his mother, tell her 
all, and give his little boy into her keeping. Poor 
little fellow, what a blight to put upon his young 
life! Perhaps in after years he could be made to 
believe that his mother had died. 

The clock on the mantel struck once—half past 
eleven. The young minister stretched himself out 
on the soft, comfortable couch and pressed his hands 
to his head, for it seemed to be bursting—swelling 
and bursting. Sleep would not come, and his face 
was flushed and hot. Perhaps some of his little 
flock were praying for their rector’s recovery now. 
Alas ! they knew not that his ailment was not of the 
body. 

The light of the lamp was growing dimmer now, 

[16] 


and his sorrow-racked brain turned the shadows upon 
the wall and floor into torturing visions. He saw 
his joung wife screaming and pleading for mercy, 
and grinning, leering fiends were burning her beauti¬ 
ful flesh with hot irons. 

With a groan he buried his face in the downy pil¬ 
lows of the couch, vainly striving to escape the 
visions that came of his disordered fancy. After 
many minutes had passed he arose and opened a win¬ 
dow to admit the refreshing air. The night was 
beautiful, and the stars in the heavens shone brightly. 
The clock on the mantel struck twelve. It was 
Christmas morning! In the distance the chimes on 
the great steeple of Trinity Church were ringing out 
their song of rejoicing: 

“ Hark! the herald angels sing 
Glory to the new-born King.” 

At last Paul Preston felt that he could pray, and, 
falling on his knees before the table, lifted his hands 
to heaven and put his very being into his passionate 
appeal: “O God forgive her sin; have mercy on an 
erring woman ! Let me atone, O God —my soul for 
hers; my soul for hers! In the name of thy beloved 
Son, the anniversary of whose holy birth now dawns, 
accept my soul for hers ! ” 

His voice grew choking and dim as he cried, again 
and again, “ My soul for hers, O God ! ” 

The lamp on the table flickered, sizzled, and went 
out, and still the chimes on the great steeple of 
Trinity Church tolled on and on and on: 

“ Hark ! the herald angels sing 
Glory to the new-born King; 

Peace on earth and mercy mild, 

God and sinners reconciled ! ” 

[ 17 ] 


Two chubby little hands pounded upon the study 
door and a little voice cried: “ Papa, papa, let me 
in ! I’se scared, papa ! Opa door! ” 

But there was no answer from within, for the life¬ 
less body of the Reverend Paul Preston lay stretched 
upon the floor of his study. 

“ Peace on earth and mercy mild, 

God and sinners reconciled ! ” 


& 


[ 18 ] 


PAST AND FUTURE. 


O ancient nations—Egypt, Greece, and Rome— 
Where is your glory? 

O modern states, in future must your records tell 
The same old story? 

Must your mighty pillars crumble, and your great 
achievements fall, 

As did the Grecian temple and the mediaeval hall? 

And must your very language die the death that 
Sanscrit died— 

Your science and philosophy be changed as floods 
the tide? 

O Greece, where are thy warriors ? O Rome, where 
are thy sages ? 

Could not such mighty men as these withstand the 
power of ages ? 

No! What matter science, statesmen, sages? 

Changes come as pass the ages. 

Time’s companion is surprise; 

Nations fall; new ones arise; 

And Hist’ry turns more pages. 


TWO LETTERS. 


HIS-FRIDAY MORNING. 

Walk to-night in the garden, May, 

And look at the planets well. 

If Venus and Mars 
Are the evening stars, 

If they shine with a light 
That is steady and bright 
(As the almanac says 
They will to-night), 

’Tis a sign from above 
That you are in love 
With a man who looks like me— 

’Tis a heaven-sent sign, 

If the stars so shine, 

That he is in love with thee. 

HER ANSWER—SATURDAY MORNING. 

I walked last night in the garden, Fred, 
But I really could not tell 
If Venus and Mars 
Were the evening stars; 

But I think their light 
Was steady and bright 
(Your almanac 
Was surely right), 

For the stars above 
Said you were in love 
With a maid who looks like me; 

And I also divined 
(By the way they shined) 

That she is in love with thee. 


[20] 


TWO IN A BOAT. 


Chapter I. 

John Clinton Wentworth was by no means an ordi¬ 
nary man. Besides being gifted with an inordinate 
amount of scientific and classical learning, he was 
the fortunate possessor of a great deal of that inval¬ 
uable quantity so seldom found in the scholar—sound 
common sense. It was on this account that he had 
learned a trade and not a profession. To a man of 
his poetic temperament, who would have loved above 
all things to have taken up a literary career, it re¬ 
quired no small amount of self-denial to put his 
attainments and inclinations behind him and settle 
down to the long, unromantic, steady grind of an 
ordinary business life. But his actions were invari¬ 
ably influenced by his great bump of common sense. 
He knew a literary life would probably be very unre- 
munerative; while, on the other hand, the trade in 
which he had been offered an apprenticeship held 
forth many promises of pecuniary success. There¬ 
fore he followed it. 

Time proved he had taken the right course. At 
the age of forty he was at the head of a large pub¬ 
lishing firm, and possessed a sufficient quantity of 
worldly dross to make him independent for life. It 
was at this time that a desire came over him to cross 
the Atlantic and spend several months in Europe. 

He explained this to his wife, saying he thought 
they both needed a change. He would go to Eu¬ 
rope. She would stay at home and look after the 
children. 

“You,” he argued, “ are doubtless tired of always 
going to places where I want to go, of always having 

[21 ] 


dinners that please me. You know I hate chicken, 
also beans; while it is an indisputable fact that you 
and the children are passionately fond of both. 
Therefore I will put my own personal desires and 
predilections aside. I will put myself to the great 
annoyance and trouble of taking a trip to Europe 
that you and the children may revel in chicken and 
beans.” 

Mrs. Wentworth had heard her husband argue like 
this before, and she knew what it meant. Long 
years ago she had learned that he was, and always 
would be, master in his own house; so she said, 
“ Very well, my dear;” and thus the matter was de¬ 
cided. 

A month later John Wentworth went to England, 
the home of his forefathers. A week he spent in 
London, revelling in the wonders of the Crystal 
Palace and feasting his curiosity on the gruesome 
relics of the Tower. His evenings he spent at the 
music halls and theaters. During the next three 
weeks he took little journeys over the kingdom, en¬ 
joying all of it immensely. 

A month he spent on the Continent; and, although 
Rome, France, and Switzerland were pleasing to his 
artistic taste, his inclinations once more drew him 
back to London. Above all other cities he loved 
London, and he determined to return and stay there 
for the last month of his foreign trip. 

It appalled him to think he must soon return to 
the tiresome grind of business. He was rich enough 
to keep his family in more than comfortable circum¬ 
stances for life, but twenty years of steady toiling 
for gold had deadened his artistic longings, and im¬ 
pregnated his very blood with the desire for more— 


more—more. He did not want to go back to work, 
but he knew he would. 

One night, soon after his return from the Continent 
to London, the incident occurred around which our 
story hinges. He had dropped into Madame Tus- 
saud’s Waxwork Show on Baker Street in search of 
amusement, and, just as he was about to leave, in¬ 
tending to go to one of the music halls, a young and 
rather pretty woman standing near dropped her 
handkerchief. He picked it up quickly, and, with a 
courteous and impressive bow, handed it to her. 

“ Oh, thank you,” she said, with a smile that dis¬ 
played to advantage two charming dimples on her 
rosy cheeks. 

“ Not at all,” he replied, enchanted with her fresh¬ 
ness and beauty. “ Fine likeness of Napoleon, isn’t 
it ? ” alluding to the wax figure near which they were 
standing. 

She seemed rather pleased at this effort to open a 
conversation. “ Yes, all the figures here are wonder¬ 
fully like the originals. Do you know, when you 
were standing so still over there in the corner, I 
thought it was a statue of Lord Byron.” 

“Ah, you flatter!” he exclaimed, delighted that 
she had noticed him before. 

They walked in and out among the figures, con¬ 
versing as if they had been friends for years. He 
found she was a wealthy Irish widow, whose husband 
had been dead for some two years. Her name was 
Mrs. Lucille O’Hara. 

“ I don’t like the last name,” shenaively admitted; 
“ it’s too impossibly Irish.” 

“ Then I may call you by the first?” he was quick 
to inquire. 

She smiled demurely. “ I have known you for 

[23] 


so short a time, but it seems as if it had been al¬ 
ways.” 

He told her he was a bachelor. His name was 
John Clinton Wentworth. He explained that he was 
a man of letters—a poet, but that he always wrote 
under a nom de plume. 

That night he took her to supper at the Cafe 
Royal, and after seeing her to the house at which she 
was stopping, returned to his hotel. 

Two evenings later they met in the ladies’ waiting- 
room of the Savoy by appointment, and thus their 
acquaintanceship was renewed. They both enjoyed 
each other’s company, and during the remainder of 
Wentworth’s stay in London were together the 
greater part of the time. 

Mrs. O’Hara knew every inch of the great metrop¬ 
olis, and with so fair a guide time literally flew. 
The young widow imagined that Wentworth was 
passionately in love with her, and he thought she was 
in love with him. Sometimes it is well to think. 

Chapter II. 

At last came the day of parting. Wentworth as¬ 
sured the pretty widow that, although it was obliga¬ 
tory for him to return to America and continue his 
literary duties, he would return some day in the near 
future and claim her for his own. 

She told him she would wait for him; that she 
could never love any one else. 

They both promised to correspond, gave each other 
their addresses, and then parted. 

Wentworth returned to his home and to his office 
duties. After all, he did not care for the woman; she 
had only been to him a pleasant companion on his 

[24] 


London jaunts. Now that he was once more back in 
his office, and business affairs had taken a firm hold 
of his mind, he only thought of her when he re¬ 
ceived one of her long and loving letters. He wrote 
to her very seldom, and her letters were full of re¬ 
proaches for his negligence and fears that he had 
forgotten her. 

It was the week after the coronation of King Ed¬ 
ward VII. that the affair came to an abrupt ending. 

The pretty widow, with “ her dear John’s” inter¬ 
ests always at heart, sent him a copy of the Illus¬ 
trated London Graphic , containing many pictures 
and a full account of the coronation. 

Wentworth thought this harmless-looking enough, 
and so, after glancing at it casually, he took it home 
to read in some leisure moment. He little knew 
what a heavy thunderbolt he was flinging at himself. 

When he reached his suburban residence the fol¬ 
lowing evening, he found his spouse awaiting him 
with extreme anger and indignation written on every 
line of her countenance. 

“ Come into the library,” she cried passionately. 
“I have discovered how you carried on in London. 
So you would flaunt your mistress’ letters in my 
very face, would you? This is a nice way to do. So 
she pins her loving epistles inside of newspapers, 
does she? Oh, you brute ! ” 

Wentworth did not know what to make of it. He 
had never seen his wife so wrought up over anything 
in his life. She was of a calm, easy-going, reserved 
nature that, as a rule, could be easily bent to his 
will; but now he beheld a veritable Xantippe, so ex¬ 
cited was she over the discovery of his faithlessness. 

When she reached the study she jerked"down the 


[25] 


lid of her writing desk, and, pulling out a letter, 
handed it to him. 

“ Suppose you thought I would never think of 
looking in the Graphic ” she observed sarcastically. 
“ I found this pinned to one of the pages. ‘ My own 
dear Tack!’ No wonder you were so fond of Lon¬ 
don ! ” 

He took the sheet of paper mutely, gazing at it in 
a dazed manner for fully half a minute. Then he 
gave a cry and stared at her angrily. 

“So!” he exclaimed. “You have dared to re¬ 
proach me for being faithless to you; you have 
dared to tell me, your husband, that I have a mis¬ 
tress ! And now you —you hand me a letter from 
another man, in which he addresses you as ‘ Darling 
Bertha, my own true love!’ Pish! I shall not 
deign to read it.” 

He tore the paper into shreds, and stormed from 
the room. 

His wife looked down at her desk. Horror of hor¬ 
rors! There was the letter she had intended to give 
him in one of the pigeon-holes. She had given him 
a letter from the man who had been making love to 
her while her husband was in Europe! 

Wentworth walked back to the garden and sat 
down on a wooden bench. His little flirtation in 
London had not seemed of much moment to him; 
but when he found his wife had been doing the same 
thing in his absence, his whole mental equilibrium 
was disturbed. He leaned over and rested his head 
on his hands. For some time he sat thus, and at 
last, just as he had decided it would be best to get a 
divorce, he heard footsteps behind him. 

“ John,” timidly said the voice of his wife. 

“ Well? ” he replied savagely. 

[26] 


“ You see, dear, we are both in the same boat, only 
I don’t think I was as bad as you were. Don’t you 
think we had better forgive each other? I really 
didn’t love this man, you know; he only amused me. 
Did you love the woman, John? ” 

“ No ! ” This time more gently. 

“ I have forgiven you, John. Won’t you forgive 
me ? ” 

He raised his head and looked at her. 

“ For the children’s sake,” she pleaded, “ if not 
for mine ? ” 

“ For the children’s sake,” he said, “ I will forgive 
you.” 

And then Mrs. Wentworth leaned over and gave 
her husband the first affectionate kiss he had known 
in years. 

Together they wrote a letter to the young Irish 
widow. It explained that he, John Wentworth, had 
fallen in love with a certain young lady from Balti¬ 
more, Miss Bertha Kroff by name, and had married 
her. He hoped that she (the young widow) had by 
this time got over all feelings of affection for him, 
and that she would very soon follow his example and 
take upon her shoulders the matrimonial yoke. 

A few weeks later Wentworth received a reply 
from Mrs. O’Hara. She was sorry to say she had 
misrepresented herself to him all the time they had 
known each other in London. Her husband was not 
dead, and her real name was not O’Hara. It was the 
name of the friend with whom she was stopping, 
and through this confidante she had received his let¬ 
ters. Her real name was Densmore. Her husband 
had been absent in America attending to some prop¬ 
erty left him by a distant relation; and, owing to a 
lawsuit brought against him by a pretended heir, 

[27] 


had been obliged to remain there for six months. 
She was glad he, Wentworth, was happily married, 
for she had been far from easy in her conscience over 
the way she had deceived him. 

The name Densmore seemed familiar to Went¬ 
worth, and when he returned home that night he said 
to his wife: “ What was the name of that fellow you 
met when I was away? ” 

“ Why,” she replied, “ I thought we had agreed 
not to mention that. His name was Densmore.” 

And then John Wentworth took a deep, astonished 
breath, and sat down heavily on the nearest chair. 




[28] 


OUT WEST. 


The moon is shining bright to-night, 
The city’s in a roar; 

But I scent no mountain air to-night 
Nor wild flowers, as of yore. 

My blood is running sluggishly, 

My spirits are depressed ; 

I’m not the man I used to be 
When I was ’way out West. 

The theater, though good to-night, 

For me had little charm; 

I was thinking of another night— 

Out West upon a farm— 

When I asked my blue-eyed Mary, 

As her little hand I pressed, 

If she would be my helpmate, 

And live with me out West. 

I heard them telling jokes to-night; 

I did my best to laugh; 

But Eastern jokes don’t seem so good 
As merry cow-boy “ chaff.” 

When the boys dropped in to supper, 

In their muddy buckskins dressed, 

Ah, then I used to laugh at jokes— 

But that was ’way out West. 

Were Mary sitting here to-night, 

Close up to my arm-chair, 

I think I’d feel quite young to-night, 

In spite of my gray hair. 

But she’s sleeping ’mong the mountains, 
Where I saw her laid to rest; 

And my thoughts will ever wander 
To her little grave out West. 


[29] 


AN INTERNATIONAL BOASTING 
PARTY. 


John Bull: 

I own a spot in China; 

I have licked the bloomin’ Boer; 

I’ve put my mark on half the globe 
By statesmanship and war. 

A million men from India 
Would answer to my call, 

Forsake their native jungles, 

And for my honor fall. 

No wonder, then, I’m haughty, 

And don’t know when I’m beat; 

For you can not knock me over 
When I’ve got ten million feet! 

Look ! Look ! Look ! 

Would any one like to take a crack 

At me or at the Union Jack? 

Look ! Look ! Look ! 

The sun never sets on my domain. 

I look at the rest of the globe in disdain,, 
For the sun never sets on my domain! 

Germany: 

Ach, Himmel! Kvit your boastings, 
Or someting I vill do 

To let you know dere’s oders in 
De vorld what’s more den you. 


[30] 


Mine Kaiser’s got von navy 
Dot surely vas a beaut. 

Unt he’s got von gross big army, 
Mit artillery to shoot. 

Der Kaiser vas von terror, 

Unt me—vhy, I vas great! 

To try unt fight against me 
Der whole vorld vas afrait. 

Hock! Hock! Hock! 

Der Kaiser Bill unt me! 

Hock! Hock! Hock! 
Von whole gross push vas ve ! 


Franck: 

Bah! Ferr zeze 

I do not care un petite sou, 
Napoleon, 

He congquerred all of you. 
Aux armes ; citoyens ! 

When you hear me cry: 

“ Formez vos bataillons ! ” 
You know ’tis time to die. 

France ! France ! France ! 
Vive la republique! 

France ! France ! France ! 
’Tis time your holes ye seek. 


Russia : 

I no moreovitch will hear 
These blowingsoff of steam; 

The rest of you are but skimmed milk, 
I amovitch the cream ! 


[3i ] 


Russia! Rus 



Uncle Sam (Interrupting) — 

Hold! We’ve had enough 

Of this vain boasting stuff. 

Behold in me 

A youth to manhood grown; 

Your ancient glories 

And your power have flown. 

My dear John Bull, I’m not concerned 
About your vast^possessions; 

A wiser policy I’ve learned 
Than useless fighting. 

You may have your spot in China; 
You may have your bloomin’ Boers, 

Since I have struck the Philippines 
I want no more of wars. 

Perhaps your monstrous navy 
Is monarch of the sea, 

But Yankee financiers own 
Another fleet, b’gee! 

It hasn’t got no'cannon, 

But it carries men and freight. 

It’s locked your ocean trade behind 
A “ U. S.” branded gate. 

Look! Look ! Look! 

Although the sun may set on me, 

Nothing else dare be so free! 

Look! Look! Look! 

See what I’ve done in a century! 

Has any one done it_before? 

Have I ever been beaten'in war? 


[32] 



Look! Look! Look! 

By shirking a fight and working at night 
I have grown to a National power! 

By working each minute and hour 
I have grown to a National power! 

Ireland: 

Look here, now, my darlints, 

John Bull and Uncle Sam. 

Who is your biggest helper? 

Begorra, now, I am ! 

Who was it helped, dear Uncle Sam, 

To fight your Spanish War? 

Who was it, Papa Johnnie Bull, 

That helped to lick the Boer? 

The Irishman, the- 

John Bull: 

Be quiet, or I’ll spank ye, Mike; 

Be quiet while I sing 
That song so dear to English hearts— 

“ Long live our gracious King! ” 


France: 

To arms, brave citizens! Form your bat 
talions! 


Germany: 

I would sing the “ Wacht am Rhein ! ” 
John Bull: 

Long live our gracious King ! 


[ 33 ] 



Russia : 


Just wait till I sing mine! 

Uncle Sam: 

Oh, say, can you see 

By the dawn’s early light- 

Ireland: 

Begorra, but I’m happy 

For there’s going to be a fight! 

Red Fire. Tableau. 




[34] 



A PORTRAIT OF THE VIRGIN. 


Monsieur Etienne de Shautelaine sat before the 
fire-place of his country house, smoking a pipe of 
fragrant tobacco. Beside him, on a table, stood a 
bowl of hot punch and several glasses. The walls* 
were hung with fine oil paintings, pieces of armor, 
broadswords, rapiers, and other rare old relics that a 
modern lover of antiques would give a fortune to 
possess. On the mantel, over the fire-place, were 
several pipes and a jar of tobacco—the whole room 
presenting a pleasing appearance of warmth and com¬ 
fort, in striking contrast to the piercing cold and 
blustering wind outside. 

In spite of his pleasant surroundings M. de Shaute¬ 
laine did not seem to be either very happy or com¬ 
fortable. Every few minutes he would rise from his 
chair and walk thoughtfully around the room. This 
country life did not please him. He was accustomed 
to the excitement of the city, to the gaming and 
drinking and fair women of Paris. Why had his 
father made that infernal will compelling his heir to 
remain on his country estate three months of the 
year? He thought of his crony, de Quesnay, sitting 
at the Beef Rouge with a crowd of his companions. 
He heard the bottles pop, the dip of the punch ladle, 
and the merry bursts of laughter. Ah, if only he 
were in Paris! 

He walked back to the fire-place, and, sitting down, 
re-filled his pipe and his punch glass. 

A few minutes later a servant entered and an¬ 
nounced Monsieur le Cure Constance, the parish 
priest of a little town near his estate. 

“ Send him in,” said de Shautelaine, thinking that 
even a Cure was better than nobody, and, besides, 

[35] 


this one was an old friend of the family and excep¬ 
tionally good company. 

The old priest entered, and, after a few words of 
greeting, filled and lit the long clay pipe proffered 
by his host. For awhile they conversed about the 
city. Father Constance had not seen it since his 
9 youth. He loved the city, but he loved the quiet, 
pious country more. 

“ Cure,” said Etienne, at last, “ it has always been 
a mystery to me how you holy men endure life. 
What are your pleasures? What do you enjoy ex¬ 
cept the questionable happiness of living? If—mind 
I say if —you live in the sanctity and godliness you 
profess, methinks you pay a heavy price for being 
supported by the people.” 

“ Etienne, what mean you by iff Would you throw 
reproach upon the servants of our Holy Church?” 

“No, Cure, I w r ould not offend you, but tell me 
what you enjoy in life.” 

“ In life we enjoy ‘ the blessed hope of everlasting 
life,’ and the heavenly peace of the Holy Spirit. I 
would be enjoying myself now were you not saying 
impious things.” 

“ But, Father Constance, it can not be that you, 
with all your wisdom, your penetrating mind, your 
knowledge of the sciences—it can’t be that you be¬ 
lieve what you profess, even what you preach.” 

“ De Shautelaine, you are mad ! ” exclaimed the 
Cure. “ I can scarcely believe that you, the son of so 
pious a father, utter these idle blasphemies. What 
has come over you in these last two years? I have 
heard the stories of your mad doings in Paris. I 
have heard of your drinking bouts, of your mad 
wagers with drunken companions, of the women you 
have jilted, of the girl who, they say, killed herself 
[ 36 ] 


on your account. But I have not believed all of 
them. I have tried to think they were only youth¬ 
ful errors magnified by report, and that you have 
your father’s heart in back of them. And now you 
ask me, your Cure, do I believe what I profess? 
Etienne, your father and I have many a time sat in 
this very room, before this fire-place, in these same 
chairs, and as often have you sat on my knee and im¬ 
plored a whiff of my pipe and a sip of my punch. 
Listen ! May I be struck dead and my soul consumed 
in everlasting fire if I do not believe entirely every¬ 
thing I taught you as a youth; if I do not put my 
trust in God and His Son, Our Saviour, Jesus Christ: 
if I have not kept the vows I made when I accepted 
the garb of the Church of Rome.” 

“ Eh bien, mon Cure; you will not confess. I hate 
to hold other men’s secrets, anyway. And yet I will 
tell you mine. I do not believe in your God or your 
Church. I have thought much on the subject, and 
this is my conclusion. It is a very convenient one, 
I assure you. It takes away all apprehension of 
punishment in a future world.” 

“ You have not considered this question rightly, 
my son. Damnant qui non intellignnt, as the ancients 
said. You wanted the contest between your better 
and worse self to end thus, and, consequently, it has. 
But I know you will soon turn back to your old be¬ 
lief. Etienne, let me help you.” 

“ That you are an efficient teacher, Father, I am 
well convinced; for in making love to the maids of 
your parish I have found them most religious and 
God-fearing. Still, my mind is convinced and at 
rest. You can not help me.” 

“ When you are an old, broken-down roue, you will 
wish you had followed my advice, Etienne. Marry 

[ 37 ] 


some woman of your own class, some good woman, 
and be true to her. Spend the winter in Paris, the 
summer here. Have a good wine-cellar in both 
establishments. Go to church often, and bring up 
your children in the fear of God. What more could 
man want ? ” 

The young man laughed. “ Such a life may please 
me when I am old—when I am a broken-down roue, 
as you say—but not now. Give me a dozen com¬ 
panions—good fellows all—several dozen women to 
figuratively hang on a string and play with, and 
plenty—yes, more than plenty—of wine. That is the 
life for me. That is my life. Having these things, 
I grant the truth of your observation, * could man 
want more ? ’ ” 

“ Wine,” said the Cure, lifting his glass, “ wine in 
moderation is good. Tobacco is good—very good. 
But dallying with women, drunkenness — bah! 
Etienne, let them alone! ” 

“ No, I will not let them alone. Through a woman 
I will convince you of the falsity of your doctrine. 
Just now you asked to be struck dead as you kissed 
the crucifix if what you said was not true. To be 
candid, I believe you lied. And yet you live. Ergo, 
I wot there is no God, and hence I do not fear to 
tempt Him. Father, look at yon portrait of the 
Virgin. Is it not beautiful? Can you imagine a 
more lovely woman? Had I lived in her time I 
would have made ardent love to her, I know; and, 
gad! I’ll wager she’d have loved me. Most modern 

women find me irresistible, anyway. Besides-” 

“You blaspheme!” cried Constance, “I must 
leave your house or I will be compelled to pronounce 

the excommunication. I-” 

“ Bear with me a moment longer. I will show you 

[ 38 ] 



that your God is a myth if I have to insult His whole 
family.” 

The young man rose and pulled the crucifix from 
the priest’s neck before the owner could prevent him 
and dashed it into the fire. Then, crossing to the 
portrait of the Virgin, he said, ironically: 

“ Behold the prowess of the God of Hosts. He can 
not even prevent me kissing the Mother of His Son.” 

“ De Shautelaine, Etienne, relent, relent! ” cried 
the priest, who seemed unable to move from his posi¬ 
tion, arid felt as if his muscles were rendered power¬ 
less by some unseen force. “ Say you will kiss the 
Virgin’s likeness with the reverent kiss of repentance ; 
say that with that kiss you will give up your old life; 
say-” 

“ No, Cure, I do it because she is a beautiful 
woman, and I always kiss beautiful women. I do it 
because I wish to kiss her, and because I want to give 
your God a chance to show that He exists. Would 
that I had the rosy cheeks of the original for the 
experiment! ” 

As the young blasphemer stretched his lips to those 
of the portrait it fell with a crash to the floor, and 
he, with an oath, jumped down to pick it up. 

“ Que diable! ” he exclaimed, as he looked at it, 
“ the canvas is blank! ” 

“Blank? Blank? A miracle!” cried the Cur6, 
clasping his hands, and then, suddenly, as his eyes 
fell upon the fire, “ Etienne, look at that wooden 
crucifix; in the midst of your roaring fire it does not 
burn! ” 

De Shautelaine rushed to the hearth, and, putting 
his hand into the blazing fire, plucked forth the cruci¬ 
fix he had thrown, as he thought, to its destruction. 
Then, tottering, he walked to the priest and fell upon 
his knees before him. [ 39 ] 


THE PIRATE AND THE TRUSTS. 


[The shade of an old buccaneer conies back to earth to 
have a look over things, and is much astonished at the vast 
wealth accumulated by the promoters of trusts.] 

The spirit of a pirate, I, 

An ancient buccaneer; 

I sailed the seas in calm and breeze 
For many a month and year. 

Our ship she was a saucy brig, 

And we stored her well with gold; 

For our pirate ere v and our captain, too, 

Were sturdy men and bold. 

We robbed well nigh three hundred ships, 

And laughed as we watched ’em burn; 

Their valiant crew in the sea we threw, 

For we liked to see ’em squirm. 

But buccaneers are gone, I see, 

And pirate days have passed; 

Now trusts galore are stealing more 
Than ever we amassed. 

We used to think we rolled in wealth, 

And well knew how to rob; 

But the trusts now show we did not know 
The Alpha of the job. 

They seize their prey, the little stores, 

With a decorous, easy grace; 

And they dig their graves in hidden caves, 
Where none can find a trace. 

[ 40 ] 


Nor Captain Kidd nor Morgan brave 
In their cru’l, piratical way, 

Could ever succeed in hiding a deed 
As the trusts hide theirs to-day. 

So here’s to the civilized buccaneers 
That rule with an iron hand, 

For I’ll be beat if the Trust on Meat 
Is not a pirate band. 

And here’s to the Kings of the valorous trusts, 
The monarchs of land and sea, 

To the King of them all, be he fleshy or tall, 
For a wonderful chief is he ! 




[4i] 


THE RULE OF THE PEN. 


“ Beneath the rule of men entirely great 
The pen is mightier than the sword.” 

* * * “ Take away the sword— 

States can be saved without it! ” 

—BULWER IyYTTON. 

Great is the point of a small steel pen, 

Wielded by one with a knowledge of men. 

A single quill can effect more good 
Or harm than a thousand falchions could; 

So let its might be not abused 
Nor with intent ignoble used; 

The world relies on the pen for light, 

It and the tongue are weapons of Right. 

Gone are the men and the manners old, 

Gone are the knights with their spurs of gold. 
Many a rigorous task they achieved, 

Well they deserved to be laurel-wreathed. 

But now the pen and the tongue must appease 
Hostile states, and war must cease. 

As relics in cabinets let weapons be hung— 

All hail to the rule of the pen and the tongue. 

The world revolves on the point of a pen; 

On it are hanging the hopes of men. 

Civilized nations acknowledge it lord ; 

The pen is mightier than the sword. 

Hail, all hail, to the fast coming day 
When just arbitration shall bloodshed allay; 
When the reign of the lance 
And the mace shall be o’er; 

[42] 


When the earth shall be rid 
Of calamitous war; 

When idle in cab’nets 

Old swords shall be hung; 
All hail to the rule 

Of the pen and the tongue ! 




[43] 


MRS. VAN OUSTEN’S MISTAKE. 


“ From out a neighboring farmyard 
Loud the cock Alectryon crowed.” 

—Longfellow. 

Mrs. Algernon Van Ousten was a charming and 
tolerably well-educated woman. She maintained her 
station in society with consummate ease and grace, 
and attended to the comfort of her husband with like 
success. But—you know there is a “ but ” or an “ if ” 
to most everything—she had one fault: she always 
had some theory, some hobby. 

From the age of fifteen up to twenty-five she had 
at different times firmly believed in eight different 
theories of eight different kinds. Now, at twenty- 
five, her hobby was the transmigration of souls. She 
had read all the available works on this subject, and 
the more she read the more she became convinced of 
the truth of her latest theory. Her friends laughed 
at her good-naturedly, and whenever she worked 
transmigration into the conversation, changed the 
subject and worked it out. 

Her husband, Algernon, being a confirmed cigarette 
smoker, had a peculiar way of coughing which seemed 
to the biased mind of his wife very similar to the 
crowing of a cock, and consequently she was quite 
positive that he was the reincarnation of Apollo’s 
cock, Alectryon. But now to get to the story. 

One night in the chilly month of February Mr. 
Algernon Van Ousten did not put in his appearance 
at dinner time, and so Mrs. Algernon had wisely con¬ 
cluded that he intended to stay at the club, and also 
that he “ wouldn’t be home till morning.” There¬ 
fore, as the Van Ousten cuckoo clock struck, or 
rather coo-cooed, ten o’clock, she replaced “ Practical 
[ 44 ] 


Proofs of Transmigration ” in the book-case and 
retired. 

A few hours after this, somewhere between twelve 
and one, Algernon arrived at the front door, and, 
after a protracted geometrical search for the exact 
location of the keyhole, at last found it and admitted 
himself into the hall. When he got into the light he 
was surprised to find that he was carrying under his 
arm a fine game rooster. This was the first time he 
had noticed the phenomenon, and for the life of him 
he couldn’t remember where he had got it. In fact, 
he never did find out how that cock got under his 
arm; and though he afterwards sounded all his 
friends on the subject, no one seemed to know any¬ 
thing about it. 

He pondered over the matter for a few seconds, 
and then, being engaged in a severe struggle with the 
force of gravity as he climbed the stairs, forgot all 
about it. When he entered the bed-room his wife 
was only half awake and paid very little attention to 
him. He was not at all offended at this—in fact, he 
was rather pleased—and so, dropping the rooster on 
the floor, he carefully took off his hat and put it under 
the bed. He then unlaced one of his shoes and put 
it on the dressing table, pulled off his coat and went 
to bed. His protege , the rooster, painstakingly ex¬ 
plored the room for a suitable place to roost, and at 
last determined on the back of a chair, where it soon 
slept the sleep of the just and the imposed upon. 

Algernon awoke at five of the clock in the morning 
and felt an intense longing for a bottle of seltzer, but 
he knew there was none in the house. He tossed 
about restlessly for a few minutes, his thirst becom¬ 
ing more and more annoying as he lay there thinking 
about it. The club was only three blocks from his 

[ 45 ] 


residence. It was Sunday morning, and his wife 
would not get up until nine of the clock. “ Why 
shouldn’t I get some seltzer? ” he thought, and then 
he decided that he 'would get some, and also that he 
would go to the club for it. 

He accordingly arose, put on his shoes and his coat, 
hunted his hat, couldn’t find it, made a few remarks 
on the subject, went down into the hall, got another 
hat off the rack, put on his overcoat, went out the 
door and started for his club. 

According to the custom of his kind, the rooster 
had deserted his perch on the back of the chair at 
sunrise and wandered about the room in a hopeless 
search for something to eat. By some unlucky 
chance it had remained in concealment under the bed 
all the time Algernon was making his hasty toilet, 
and so he had not discovered his feathered comrade of 
the night before; but almost as soon as he left the 
house the cock came out of his hiding place and flew 
up on the bed. In doing so, one of his wings struck 
Mrs. Van Ousten on the cheek, and she awoke with 
a scream. 

“ What was that?” she exclaimed, as she put out 
her hand to arouse her husband. But she drew it 
back astonished. What on earth had she touched? 
She sat up and looked. There on the bed, craning 
his neck at her inquisitively, sat a beautiful game 
cock. 

“Merciful heavens! ” she gasped, “Algernon has 
been punished for last night. His soul has been sent 
back into the body of a cock. Oh, Algernon, if you 
could only speak to me and tell me what to do.” 

“What will the neighbors say?” she asked the 
cock, as she hurriedly dressed herself; “ they will 


[46] 


not believe this; they will say you have deserted me. 
Oh, Algernon, I’ll have to send for mother.” 

When she had completed her hasty toilet, she ran 
to the telephone and called up her mother, telling 
her between gasping sobs that something dreadful 
had happened. “Oh, dear; do come quick,” she 
pleaded. 

Her mother hastened to her stricken daughter, and 
there was quite a scene when she heard her story. 

“ Lucretia,” she exclaimed, “ I told you somthing 
awful would happen if you married that Van Ousten. 
Oh, you nasty chicken ! ”—making a vicious lunge at 
it—“ I’d like to wring your neck.” 

Then they put their heads together and formed a 
plan of operations. They decided to say that Alger¬ 
non had gone away on a protracted business trip, and 
so avert suspicion until they saw whether the cock 
would come back into its human form. Next they 
arranged all the little details of the plot—how they 
would tell his friends who had been with him at the 
club the night before that he had left on the seven 
o’clock train for Boston, and how they would tell 
this one that, and that one this, etc., etc. 

When the consultation was over the stricken wife 
felt that she could no longer keep up, and so, dis¬ 
robing, she went to bed, and, in a short time, cried 
herself to sleep. In the meantime her mother had 
started down stairs to tell the servants the cause of 
their master’s absence—not the real cause, but the 
one they had arranged to avert suspicion—but just as 
she reached the middle landing, the front door 
opened and—could she believe her eyes!—in walked 
Van Ousten himself. 

“ How—where?” she faltered, almost believing it 
an illusion, “how—did—you—get—here?” 

[ 47 ] 


“ Hello, mother! what’s the matter?” he asked. 

“ Why, we—Lucretia thought you had been turned 
into a rooster. Are you sure you’re not a rooster?” 

Algernon knitted his brows; he did not like to 
think his mother-in-law was under the influence of 
liquor, but he could find no other explanation for the 
absurdity of her language. He did not mind an oc¬ 
casional frolic when he himself was concerned; he 
considered drinking the birthright of man, but above 
all things he hated to see an inebriated woman. 

‘‘Let me help you to a chair,” he said severely, 
advancing towards her. 

“ No, my boy, I’m all right now; there must have 
been some mistake. Let us try and ferret this thing 
out. Come into the parlor, so we won’t wake Lu¬ 
cretia.” 

In about fifteen minutes the mystery was explained, 
and after he had promised never again to remain at 
the club later than ten p. m., his mother-in-law con¬ 
sented to go home and leave him to try and make his 
wife believe it w r as all a dream. 

When she had gone he went up to the bed-room, 
and, with as little noise as possible, caught the un¬ 
fortunate game-cock and threw it out of the window. 
Then he gently awakened his wife, saying, as she 
opened her eyes, “ Isn’t it nearly time to get up— 
eleven o’clock, you know? ” 

“ Van Ousten, Algernon, is that you? ” she gasped. 

“ Have you been changed back again? Oh, how 
glad I am-! ” 

“ Changed back ! What do you mean? ” he asked, 
trying to look puzzled. 

“ Why, weren’t you a rooster? When did you get 
in last night? Oh—I see,” she said, as her senses 

[48] 



gradually returned. “ I—I—believe I have been 

dreaming.” 

“First rate,” thought Algernon; “more than I 
expected.” But he only said: “Yes, my dear, I 
guess you have. What was it about ? ” 

Then she started to tell him her supposed dream, 
but suddenly she broke off, exclaiming, “ Oh, it was 
so natural, it can’t have been a dream. Mother was 
here and everything. What time did you say you 
got in ? ” 

“A little after eleven, my dear,” he answered, com¬ 
placently. 

“ Well, I suppose it really was a dream, but, oh! 
it was so horribly natural.” 

“ My dear, I think you occupy your mind too 
much with this transmigration business. Hadn’t 
you better give it up?” 

“ Well, yes, Algy, I believe I will. Now, run 
away, and I’ll get dressed.” 

He went down into the library and picked up a 
paper. “ Deuced lot of excitement for a fellow with 
a head like mine,” he thought. “ Shouldn’t be sur¬ 
prised if there’s an ad. in this morning for a game¬ 
cock * lost, strayed—or stolen.’ ” 

In a few minutes he heard his wife calling from the 
top of the stairs. 

“ What is it, my dear? ” he asked, going into the 
hall. 

“ You’ve deceived me, it wasn’t a dream,” she 
cried ; I’ve found a feather on the floor! ” 

For a moment he was confused. He thought the 
game was up. Then an idea struggled into his head. 

“ Never mind; you ’re a little excited. It’s out of 
a pillow, probably,” he answered. 


[49] 


Her manner changed. “ How silly I am; I never 
thought of that,” she said. 

Algernon chuckled as he returned to the library 
and resumed his paper. 

“ Well,” he mused, “ I guess I’m pretty safe as 
long as I keep on the good side of mamma-in-law.” 


[50] 


A PARAPHRASE 


ON THE LAST PARAGRAPH OF CICERO’S FIRST 
ORATION AGAINST CATILINE. 


Catiline, abandoned man, begone! 

Knowing the truth of all these things 
Which I have said to thee this day. 

Make haste ! To thy expectant Manlian camp— 
Begone! 

To thy destruction and the bane 
Of all those wretched men 
Whom thou hast caught 
Within thy grasping nets of vice— 

Rush on! 


*And thou, O Jupiter, 

Of all Olympian gods the king; 
Consecrated by 
The same religious rites 
As was our mighty Rome 
By Romulus; 

Thou, whom we most justly call 
The “ Stator ” of our city; 

Keep, O keep from out thy temple, 
From thy altars, 

From the lives of Roman citizens, 

This impious man 

And his nefarious satellites. 


* Here Cicero turns to the statue of Jupiter standing near 
him in the Capitol. 


[51] 


Trample ’neath thy godly feet 
These enemies 
Of all good men, 

These foes of Rome 
In lawless union linked 
Together; 

Punish them in life, in death; 

Let snake-locked Furies torment them 
Forever! 


J. J. 


[ 5^3 


THE BENCH IN THE GARDEN. 


In childhood’s days my mother would sit 
On the bench by the apple tree, 

And when I was fretful or weary would sing 
Soft lullabies to me. 

With brothers and sisters I’ve often played— 
The bench was a “ choo-choo ” car, 

And jumping aboard with merry shouts, 
We’d journey to countries far. 

But we never left the garden green, 

The roses we still could see; 

We only pretended to travel 
On the bench by the apple tree. 

As time flew by I fell in love 
With a pretty country maid, 

And on the bench in the garden 
My life at her feet I laid. 

With blushes my suit was accepted, 

And we talked of a joyous life, 

A blissful and happy existence, 

Unbroken by sorrow or strife. 

Ah, sweet were the glorious plans we made 
For the days that were to be; 

But nobody knows what we said that night 
Save the bench and the apple tree. 

Well—Mary and I were married, 

And for two happy years 
Our life was one of ecstasy, 

Of joy unmixed with tears. 

But soon poor Mary sickened, 

Sickened and died—alas! 


[53] 


The things we love and treasure most 
Are oft the first to pass. 

Happy but short was our wedded life, 
And happy would mine now be, 

If I still could sit with Mary 
On the bench by the apple tree. 

Each evening I go to the garden, 

On the little red bench I sit, 

On the bench were I wooed my Mary 
Where mother used to knit. 

’Tis then I dream of days that are gone 
Of friends that were staunch and true 
And little I grieve because the years 
Now left to me are few. 

I never go far from the garden, 

The roses I love to see; 

I hope to die where long I’ve lived— 
Near the bench by the apple tree. 




WHEN FALLS THE RAIN. 


You walk to the window and look out. The deuce! 
It’s still raining. What are you going to do all day? 
You try to console yourself by thinking of what you 
would do to the Rain Man if you only had him in 
your power. You tire of this, and think you’ll read. 
There is a book on the table, and you pick it up. 
./Esop’s Fables. Well, you guess not! You throw it 
into the corner and take up Barrie’s “ My Lady Nico¬ 
tine.” After settling down into an easy chair you 
read a little, and then, influenced by the book, you 
want to smoke, and so you fill and light your favorite 
briar. Wonder what that Arcadia Mixture is which 
Barrie talks so much about? Finally you get crazy 
for a pipe of Arcadia, and then you realize that there 
probably is no such mixture, and that you can’t get 
any of it if there is. So “ My Lady Nicotine ” fol¬ 
lows vEsop. into the corner. Next you get a volume 
of Shakespeare out of the bookcase and open it at 
‘The Merchant of Venice.” As you turn over the 
leaves you see— 

“ The quality of mercy is not strain’d. 

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven 
Upon the place beneath.” 

Before this you have always admired Shakespeare, 
but now he falls many degrees in your estimation. 
The idea of comparing mercy to rain! No wonder 
the Jew didn’t want to have anything to do with it 
when Portia told him it was like rain. You put 
Shakespeare back, and sit down to smoke and think. 
You picture to yourself what you would have done if 
it hadn’t rained. You cannot quite decide whether 
you would have spent the day in the country or 
whether you would have started on a trip to the 

[55] 


North Pole. Hanged if you know what you would 
have done! Only, you are sure it would have been 
something interesting. “Why doesn’t somebody drop 
in? ” you ask yourself. 

You go downstairs and walk about the house with 
your hands in your pockets. You see a new novel on 
the table; you pick it up and carry it back to your room. 
When you are once more seated in your armchair, 
you open it and look at the first page. The book is 
by a woman, and, as usual in such cases, begins with 
a glowing description of a beautiful day in some 
beautiful place. After the first ten lines or so you 
throw it away disgusted. It seems utterly impossible 
for lady novelists to withstand scenery. Perhaps they 
try; but when once they have tasted the intoxicating 
draught, when once they have written a paragraph 
of scenery, they are filled with an insatiable craving 
for more—more—more. The inebriate’s desire for 
liquor is as nothing when compared with the lady 
novelist’s predilection for scenery. 

When you have tossed away the modern novel you 
re-light your briar, and, going to the bookcase 
thoughtlessly, take out a volume of Poe. “ H’m, 
Poe’s a nice thing to read on a rainy day,” you think. 
You turn over the leaves until you come to “The 
Raven.” You did not intend to read it, but you do. 
The sorrowful lines ease your own melancholy. A 
part of the second stanza especially seems to fit your 
own case— 

“Eagerly I sought the morrow;—vainly I had sought 
to borrow 

From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the 
lost Lenore— 

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels 
named Lenore— 

[ 56 ] 


Nameless here for evermore.” 


Yes, “vainly you have sought to borrow from your 
books surcease of sorrow.” These lines fit you ex¬ 
actly, but one thing annoys you. You have never 
been unsuccessful in love—in fact, you have never 
been in love, and so you can’t be as melancholy as the 
author of “The Raven.” Why on earth didn’t some 
girl jilt you? There certainly is no excuse for the 
way women have treated you. You decide that as 
soon as it quits raining you will go outside and get 
some feminine acquaintance to theoretically “throw 
you down.” When you have finished the poem you 
replace the volume and walk to the window. 

Oh, the poor old world; how dreary and uninviting 
it looks! The sky may be its friend, but, like other 
friends, it sometimes smiles and then again it frowns. 
To-day it deluges the patient earth with water; it 
sends its slaves—the cold, fierce winds—to uproot 
trees and topple over buildings; it makes the face of 
our once lovely world all dirty, sad, and sorrowful. 
To-morrow it thinks how unkind it has been; it is 
surprised at itself and sorry. It hides its shame 
’neath soft blue clouds and sends sweet-smelling 
zephyrs to its friend to pray forgiveness. 

We really should be more indulgent to our poor, 
overworked Earth; we should not be quite so ready 
to blame and abuse her. After all, we are her chil¬ 
dren and she does her best for us. Perhaps she re¬ 
members that she, too—yes, even she, our aged, 
wrinkled, wise Earth—was once a useless infant. She 
was created, passed through babyhood, through 
childhood, through youth. She grew, becoming 
beautiful and flourishing, until at last she was able to 
care for children, and we, her children, were given 
her. How hard a time our poor old mother must have 
in caring for all her progeny ! They must be fed 

[ 57 ] 


and nourished; and, oh, how many there are to nour¬ 
ish ! Is it just to blame her because she sometimes 
fails ? It may be true that she has favorites; but since 
we are descended from the Earth, it is probable we 
inherited from her one great fault—human nature. 
And therefore, since the Earth possesses this fault of 
faults, she cannot care for every one the same; she 
cannot love the sin-blackened criminal as she loves 
the spotless virgin; she cannot love the lazy igno¬ 
ramus as she loves the broad-minded sage. She sees 
some child of hers with massive mind and great abili¬ 
ties; her mother’s pride is aroused, and she rains on 
him showers of gold and shining silver. Or, if such 
may be his wish, she gives him fame. 

Ah, a kindly mother is our Earth, but, like other 
mothers, she often makes mistakes. She cannot give 
us happiness. She gives us something which she 
thinks will help us to it; but, alas! her gifts are oft 
mischosen. Our tear-stained faces show her this at 
times, and then she drops a tear or two and takes us 
to her bosom. Perchance this is her way of parting 
with us. She holds us close and says “ Good-bye.” 
Then she takes us by the hand and leads us to some 
realm where happiness holds sway supreme; where 
the sturdy sentinels of Truth and Joy thrust back 
with sharp-pronged spears the squirming mundane 
imps of Sorrow, Sin, and Jealousy. 

We weep when Mother Earth would give us her 
last embrace; we exert our feeble strength and draw 
back, crying out, ‘‘Leave me here; I will be con¬ 
tent.” But she gently closes our eyes, and thus, 
while we sleep, she starts us on our journey to the 
Happy Hunting Ground. 

By this time you have worked yourself into a more 
contented mood, and, walking away from the window, 

rs8i 


you sit down to write. Everything goes along fine 
now, and you flatter yourself you are at last going to 
produce something good. Five pages are written, 
and you have almost regained your customary good 
spirits, when there is a knock at the door and Harry 
Fitzgerald comes in. 

“ The devil! ” you exclaim. 

“ Oh, no, only I, old man; not the devil at all, you 
know. Here’s your pipe. Found it down on the 
sidewalk. Got any tobacco ? ” 

You hand him your pouch and resignedly fill your 
own pipe. Well, it’s always that way on a rainy day. 
As soon as you get to doing something you want to 
do, you are compelled by unrelenting Fortune to do 
something you don’t want to do. 

What was rain made for, anyway? 




[59] 


A FINNISH LULLABY. 


Thy father is sailing the Southern sea, 

A sailorman hardy and brave is he; 

So sleep, my little one, 

Slumber sound. 

Bye, bye, lullaby; 

Mother’s darling mustn’t cry ; 

Lulla, lulla, lullaby. 

Shortly, my dear, will his good ship sail in, 
’Twill soon come back to the land of the Fi 
So sleep, my little one, 

Slumber sound. 

Bye, bye, lullaby; 

Baby mustn’t fret and cry; 

Lulla, lulla, lullaby. 


Of goblins and elfs ye need have no fear, 
Mother will keep them away from her dear 
So sleep, my little one, 

Slumber sound. 

Bye, bye, lullaby; 

Angels watch thee from the sky; 

Lulla, lulla, lullaby. 

Father will bring from the Southern sea 
Curious toys and trinkets for thee; 

So sleep, my little one, 

Slumber sound. 

Bye, bye, lullaby; 

Sweet little baby mustn’t cry; 

Lulla, lulla, lullaby. 


No savage Norseman shall do my babe harm 
For infants are shielded by God’s own arm; 

So sleep, my little one, 

Slumber sound. 

Bye, bye, lullaby; 

May angels watch thee from the sky; 

Lulla, lulla, lullaby. 

May the Virgin come when you’re sleeping well, 
And of her own dear Christchild tell; 

So sleep, my little one, 

Slumber sound. 

Bye, bye, lullaby; 

Child of God, who reigns on high; 

Lulla, lulla, lullaby. 


J* 


[61 j 


Chesapeake Ohio 

RAI L W A Y 

“THE RHINE, 

THE ALPS 
AND THE 

BATTLEFIELD LINE.” 


Tbe most interesting, picturesque and popular route 

BETWEEN 

New York Philadelphia 

Baltimore Washington 

Old Point Comfort 
Richmond 

Virginia Hot Springs 
Cincinnati Louisville 

Chicago St. Louis 

For illustrated descriptive 
pamphlets, address. 

H. W. PULLER, General Passenger Agent, Washington, D. C. 
JOHN D. POTTS, A. G P. A., Cincinnati, 0. 


[62] 



A NEW 'pit 


Uhe 

“20tli Century Limited ” 

CINCINNATI 

-TO- 

NRW YORK. 

The Finest and Fastest Long- Distance Train 
in the World. 


Leaves CINCINNATI,... 2 00 P. M. 
Arrives NEW YORK,.,. 9.30 A. M. 

DAILY. 


THROUGH SLEEPER Cincinnati to New York. 
BUFFET PARLOR CAR Cincinnati to Cleveland. 
DIMING CARS Galion to Cleveland 

and Albany to New York. 
YESTIBULED COACHES Cincinnati to Cleveland. 
COMBINATION BUFFET, SMOKING and 
LIBRARY CAR Cleveland to New York. 


NO EXTRA FARE TO LOCAL POINTS ON “ BI6 FOUR." 


WARREN J. LYNCH, G. P. A., 
Cincinnati, O. 


[63] 








1904—The World’s Fair Line—1904 



Louisville, Henderson & St. Louis 
Railway Co. 

BEST LINE BETWEEN LOUISVILLE AND ST. LOUIS 


ATTILLA COX, A. M. McCRACKEN, LUCIAN J. IRWIN, 

President. Gen’l Superintendent. Geu’l Passenger Agt. 


LOriSVILJLJE, K¥ 







SHORTEST ROUTE. 


QUICKEST SCHEDULES. 
BEAUTIFUL SCENERY. 



and 

Southern Railway 

between 

CINCINNATI, CHATTANOOGA, 
ATLANTA, ASHEVILLE, SAVAN¬ 
NAH, CHARLESTON, JACKSON¬ 
VILLE, ST. AUGUSTINE, BIRM¬ 
INGHAM, SHREVEPORT, NEW 
ORLEANS, and TEXAS POINTS. 

Drawing Room and Standard Sleepers. 

Dining and Observation Cars. 

Write for Rates and Printed Matter. 

W.J. MURPHY, W. C. RINEARSON. 

General Manager. General Passenger Agt 

CINCINNATI. 

[65 1 




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FEB 21 1S03 


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Gas Coke 

Is now used almost 
universally in place 

of ANTHRACITE. 


GAS 


PH VT ( for domestic use) is 
VyvJiVC made in two sizes— 


LUMP 

CRUSHED 


For Furnaces 
and Orates. 

For Small Furnaces, 
Stoves and Ranges. 


THE MARMET CO. 


SOLE AGENTS. 


Telephone Main 784 connects with all our 
Departments. 


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[ 66 ] 


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